Miranda Jarrett – The Duke's Gamble (страница 12)

She grinned wickedly. “Some might disagree with you, your grace.”

He returned her grin, relishing its warmth. Women didn’t generally ask him about his childhood, and it rather pleased him that she had. “Perhaps I am spoiled. But I had a deuced fine time as a boy, I can tell you that. I spent most of the year in the country, at Guilford Abbey, getting into whatever mischief I could.”

“That’s in Essex, isn’t it?”

“Devon,” he said, the pride clear in his voice as he let himself sink into a hazy, happy recollection of the past. “‘Devon is Heaven,’ my father used to say, and there was no finer place for any boy. I had a new pony every summer to match my height as I grew, a whole pack of dogs that trooped along with me and a boat to sail in the duck pond. I went hunting and fishing with my uncles and my sisters’ husbands, played out the American war in the orchards with my cousins and ate my fill of sweet biscuits and jam with the servants at the big table in the kitchen.”

“So even the servants spoiled you,” she said softly, watching him from beneath the brim of that dreadful hat.

“Oh, they were the worst of the lot,” he said. “Cook always had a soft spot for me, and she was always baking me special little pies, carving my initials in the top of the crust.”

That made her smile. “So you wanted for absolutely nothing.”

“Not a blessed thing,” he agreed. “I was the happiest little rogue alive.”

“I hope you won’t forget that, your grace,” she said, glancing out the window as the chaise slowed. “Ah, we’ve arrived.”

Curious, he turned toward the window, as well; he’d been so caught up in his reminiscing that he’d no notion of how far they’d traveled. He looked, and saw, and his expression at once grew somber.

Could there have been a more different scene from the green Devon hills he’d been describing? They’d long ago left the neat, fashionable prosperity of St. James Square for a neighborhood in London that he knew he’d never visited before.

Here the houses were so old they seemed ready to topple into the street, ancient timbers and beams that somehow must have survived the Great Fire over a hundred years before. Broken windows were stuffed with handfuls of dirty straw, or simply left open and gaping, like a broken tooth in a drunkard’s smile. No reputable trades kept businesses here, but every other building seemed to house an alehouse or gin shop. Even on a Sunday, last night’s customers still sprawled on the steps, while a few desultory women with bodices open and cheeks painted with tawdry red circles tried to lure their first customers of the day.

Because the afternoon was warm, and the same sun that shone on the rich folk in their open carriages in Green Park also fell here, the street was also filled with dirty, barefoot children, cripples on makeshift crutches, babies wailing with hunger in their too-young mothers’ arms, mongrel dogs scrapping over an old mutton bone, and costermongers hawking fruit and vegetables too rotten for the better streets. The street itself was unpaved, with a deep kennel in the center filled with standing, putrid water, thick with dead rats and human filth.

His coachman would have seventeen fits when he saw that muck on the gold-trimmed wheels of the chaise.

Amariah was unlatching the door herself, not waiting for the footman. “Mind yourself, your grace. They’ll all ask you for something. But if you give one a coin, then fifty more will suddenly appear with their hands out, too, so I’ve found it’s best not to begin. They’ll only squander it on gin, anyway, which is why I prefer to give them food instead.”

Just as she warned, beggars of every age were already crowding around the door with their filthy hands outstretched like so many claws, pressing so closely that they rocked the chaise on its springs and made the horses whinny nervously.

“Hold now, Miss Penny, you can’t go out there with them!” he said, grabbing her arm to keep her back. “It’s not safe!”

She looked back at him over her shoulder, incredulous and a little disdainful at the same time, as she shook her arm free of his hand.

“Of course I can, your grace,” she said, looping one of the baskets into the crook of her arm, “and I do, every Sunday.”

“But consider what you’re doing, Miss Penny, the risk you are taking—”

“Being poor and hungry does not turn a person into a dangerous beast, your grace,” she said firmly. “But if you are too frightened for your own safety, then you may feel free to remain here.”

Before he could catch her again, she’d pushed the door open and hopped outside, holding the basket before her like a wicker shield as she made her way through the beggars. Now he realized they’d stopped before a woebegone little church, bits of stonework broken away like a stale pie crust and the once-red paint worn from the tall arched doors. The church’s pastor stood before one of these doors, smiling and holding it open for Amariah and her baskets.

“Your grace?” One of his footmen belatedly appeared at the door, his expression as confused as Guilford’s own must be. “If you please, your grace, what—”

“Damnation, take those infernal baskets down for Miss Penny!” He couldn’t let Amariah go alone, not into this mess, and with a deep breath he pushed past the footman into the crowd after her. The stench was appalling, and it took all his willpower not to cover his nose with his handkerchief. Who would have guessed other humans could smell as vile as the refuse beneath their feet?

“A penny, guv’nor, only a penny!”

“Please, sir, please, for me poor mum!”

“Sure, sure, a fine gentleman like yourself can spare a coin for a sufferer!”

Resolutely Guilford pushed forward, focusing on Amariah and not those jostling around him. With a horrible thought, he pressed his hand over his waistcoat, relieved to feel the comforting weight of his gold watch and chain still there. The timepiece had been in his family for generations, and he’d hate to have it nicked by one of these sorry rascals.

“Please, m’lord, please—”

“Not today, I’m afraid,” he mumbled. He told himself he was only following Amariah’s suggestion, but he still felt like some wretched miser with his pockets stitched shut. “I’ve no loose coins with me.”

Finally he reached the church, bounding up the worn stone steps and away from the beggars. His heart was pounding, and he could feel the unpleasant prickle of sweat beneath his shirt collar.

At least Amariah was beaming at him for his trouble, no inconsiderable consolation.

“Your grace, I should like to present Reverend Robert Potter,” she said in exactly the same easy, gracious tone she used when introducing foreign princes and other grandees at Penny House. “Reverend Potter is the vicar here at St. Crispin’s parish, and he sees that the food we bring from Penny House is given away to those who need it most. Reverend Potter, His Grace the Duke of Guilford. Lord Guilford is most interested in our charities, Reverend, and is accompanying me today to observe for himself.”

His hands clasped over the front of his plain black cassock, Potter nodded and smiled warmly. He was tall and thin, almost gaunt, but the kindness in his weathered blue eyes softened his entire face.

“I cannot tell you how honored I am to meet you, your grace, and to have you here at St. Crispin’s,” he said. “Would that more great lords were like you and Miss Penny, and took such a worthy interest in the sufferings of the unfortunate.”

Guilford cleared his throat and nodded in return, feeling like some sort of false play-actor standing on these steps. “Miss Penny can take all the credit,” he said. “She’s the one who brought me here.”

“She also seems to have brought more than the usual amount of food, your grace.” Potter watched with obvious approval as the footmen brought in the rest of the baskets from the chaise. “But how rare to have it delivered to us in a ducal carriage!”

Amariah looped her hand into his arm. “Come inside, your grace, and see everything that we brought.”

He let her lead him inside the church, cool and damp after the sun, and into a small hall to one side of the church itself. The bare walls were whitewashed, the worn planked floor swept clean, and three rows of long board tables ran the length of the room. As soon as the footmen set the baskets on the tables, two plainly dressed women and a boy in an uncocked black hat began unpacking them and arranging the food inside into wooden trenchers. There were no benches at the tables; after seeing the crowd outside, Guilford guessed they wouldn’t exactly sit and linger over their meal, anyway.

“As much as we brought, it won’t begin to be enough,” Amariah said as she, too, began to transfer apples from a basket to a trencher. “There are so many in London who are hungry, and they are quick to tell one another when they discover a place where charity food is to be had. As poor as this neighborhood is, I’d guess that more than half of those folk waiting outside are from other places, folk who’ve come here in hopes of being able to take away the hunger for even this day.”